Custer chronicle. [volume] (Custer City, Black Hills, D.T. [S.D.]) 1880-1890, 1887-10-08

A CUur D'Alene Camp.

The following extract from a letter by
Frank Wilkeson in the N. Y. Times,
descriptive of a C9ur d'Alene mining
camp, which is doubtless overdrawn
and amplitied beyond the bounds of
truth, is only copied for the amusement
the reader may find in the perusal Of
the piquant description:
at is evening, and as the sun sinks
behind the mountains. men gather in
groups in the hotels, on the walks in
front of these foul dens, in eating rooms
in billiard rooms, and in drirkina
saloons, and they talk. Almost all o.
them are dirty. They have red faces
and swollen noses, and there is ii net
work Of bright red veins in their cheeks.
They are poorly dressed. They talk OF
mines and talk for the benefit OF
strangers. They lie and brag and lie
again, They spin long yarns relative to
free-milling, gold-bearing quartz, of ex-
ceedingly rich but remote placer d;ggings
and immense veins Of silver ore. They
cOvertly watch the unsophisticated
stranger to judge of the effect their
marvellous tales have on him. They eve
him hungrily, as though to see in which
pocket he carries his money. Finally,
one approaches him, chair in hand, and
seats himself at his side, saying / m
mellow tones: How are you Colonel p
which remark he quickly supplements
by saying: 1T is a beautiful evening
eh, ColonelT This one-sided converse
ton goes in all the Cpur d'Alene mining
camps as an introduction, and as a
vouching for the responsibility of the
u~nwashed mountaineer, which should
be more satisfactory than a letter from
say, a bishop. Then he asks you your
name, and presently you are introduced
to a mob of colonies and Judges and
saloon keepers, non of whom, to Judge
from their personal cleanliness and
puffy faces, ever use water, and all Of
whom haye evidently had a serious
misunderstanding with their washer
women. These men ask impertinent
questions as to who you are, where you
are going, where you came from, and
what you are doing. They thrust their
hands deep into trousers pockets and
draw forth specimens of ore, which
have served their useful purpose in
many mining camps, and these they
moisten with their tongues and hold
close to the end Of your nose for inspec-
ton, saying, Colonel just look at that.
1t runs $1,000 to the ton and free milling.
And they lie as a lightping-rod man
while you look at the specimen. At
intervals old, white-haired miners.
whose lives have been spent in placer
mines and prospecting, and in the
alcoholic lair of the Rocky Mountain
tiger, walk stihy up the street. They
halt at the groups of talking men, and
seeing the stranger and the play that is
being made at him, they soberly inspect
the pocket-specimens for the fifty-second
time, and, with the air of a mining ex-
pert, pronounce them good. And, with
out a smile, they ask where they were
found, and on hearing, they clinch their
wrinkled hands and lift them high
above their white heads and bring them
down with a swing and an oath, which
prefaces the remark that the vein which
carries that ore is worth millions. The
old miner, who is b~ankrupted in health
and pocket, has earned a drink of
whisky, and he gets it."